


Back to the Place Where I Belong

by Primarina (PastelBrachypelma)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Fluff, Home, Late at Night, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Snakes, Songfic, Trauma, snake biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelBrachypelma/pseuds/Primarina
Summary: I’m going homeWhere your love has always been enough for me.These places and these faces are getting old,So I'm going home.





	Back to the Place Where I Belong

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted, sitting upright in bed. His own scream had woken him up; he’d felt it in his throat as it came out of his mouth, and that alone was disorienting, not to mention his ragged breathing and his heart’s wild beating, like a wild stallion.

It was a nightmare that was all too familiar to him, something that had haunted him on and off since the failed Apocalypse a month ago. Sometimes, the traumatic stress of it was enough to make him give into snake biology, so he’d refused to eat, in hopes of tricking the serpent that lay dormant within him. He’d allowed himself to get thinner, scruffier, not as clean-shaven as he generally liked to be. And his hair was back to Nanny Ashtoreth length, loose waves settling naturally in the fire-red locks. 

He ran his shaking hands down his slim arms, feeling burns that weren’t there. He could feel the heat of imagined fire on his face, smoke searing his eyes, as he frantically searched for Aziraphale.

["Somebody killed my best friend!"]

The demon coughed, deep and hoarse, as the panic seized him suddenly and he began to gag, unable to get air as his stomach heaved, trying to expel the contents of his stomach. It was mercifully empty, of course; Crowley didn’t mind eating, but it wasn’t his vice, and he always miracle himself sober anyway. But the instinct was there and strong, and it took a minute for Crowley to convince his human reactions to take over.

It didn’t mean he felt any better, but at least there was less disgusting gagging noises.

Crowley got out of bed, shivering in the cold air of the mid-October night. He waved a hand over himself, his pajamas disappearing, replaced with a black velour track jacket from some designer or other and black Supreme sweatpants. (He invented Supreme, and was quite delighted with its success. Ordinary items made scarce by limited runs, with the ugliest logo ever invented? It was perfection.) Crowley ever let himself be seen in loungewear, but considering it was nearly 3AM, he didn’t need to worry about anyone seeing him. After donning black sneakers, a scarf, and a hat, Crowley ventured outside.

He made it as far as getting into the Bentley before the smell of smoke and burning rubber slid into his nostrils uninvited. The annoying thing was that his rational brain told him there was nothing to be scared of. His beloved car was not, in fact, on fire, and the world was not about to end, even if it felt like it. Still, though, in his mind’s eye, he could only see and feel the flames. If he closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, he could feel the burning leather melting into his jacket, painfully marring his skin. He could taste the desperation on his tongue, his whole body exhausted and yet pouring out, through adrenaline alone, an incredible amount of power, just to keep the damn thing operational.

He sighed deeply, sagging into the seat. His human corporation felt the punishing weight of that fatigue, the emptiness of his stomach significant and enough to make him ache. It was stupid; he was a demon! He didn’t need to bend to the supposed rules of a human body! And yet here it was, dare he say, hungry! Hungry! Like he was some kind of…!

[“I got peckish.”]

“Angel,” Crowley sighed. Yes, that was who he’d driven a burning car (a loose definition) for. The only one who mattered to him. The only one who ever would.

[Our side.]

Crowley reluctantly pulled himself out the Bentley, shutting the car door with a thud. He saw it explode in a mass of fire and flame, felt the pavement beneath his knees as he fell, devastated, silently asking someone why he had been chosen to lose everything. A place in Heaven, a place in Hell, the love and forgiveness of his angel, and now, possibly, the world.

Clever little Adam for deciding the world couldn’t possibly end just yet, when it was only beginning.

The demon hesitantly touched the car’s gunmetal grey hood. It felt chilled with the night air, smooth under his fingertips. Not hot, not burned, perfectly reincarnated, just like this new world.

She smelled like a new car again, but, frankly, that was to be expected. Adam had even added in the little James Bond bullet hole decals, so he couldn’t complain too much.

Funny how the world began with an Adam…and had almost ended with another.

Crowley detested physical exercise as a rule. Why walk when he could drive? Why run when he could fly? And frankly, this corporation looked ridiculous while running, so it was really just as well that he’d never found human sports interesting. But he couldn’t take the Bentley, not when the flames were burning lively in his memory.

He put his cold hands into his pocket, ducked his chin into his scarf, and walked on.

~

Crowley stood outside the bookshop, looking up at its familiar, unchanged façade. He’d seen it while in Aziraphale’s body, able to prove to himself that this home of his wasn’t just a pile of ash. 

This bookshop felt more like home to him than his own flat, no matter what comforts he added to his own space. This place was home. A place he belonged.

He opened the old, heavy doors, which yielded easily at his touch, letting him walk inside. He was assaulted with the particular smell only old books have; something musty and pure and welcoming, even to someone who didn’t read books typically. (He had books, of course, but they were mostly coffee table books and decorative leather things to tuck into spaces between knickknacks on shelves.)

The light in Aziraphale’s back room was on, as he knew it would be. Aziraphale rarely slept, always able to occupy his mind somehow.

Crowley stood in the doorway, his heart swelling with relief, his eyes wet with emotion. His angel was alive, breathing, surrounded by his books, one open before him, his clever, stubby fingers affixing pages to a torn spine with glue. “Do come in, dear boy,” he said without looking up. “I was just about to make some tea. Something with a splash of whiskey, don’t you think?”

Crowley sat down, toeing off his shoes and curling his knees to his chest, taking up residence on his favorite sofa. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders, waiting for Aziraphale; this corner was always drafty.

The angel finished his work swiftly and bustled off to retrieve the tea. In shirtsleeves and his vest, this was as undressed as Aziraphale had ever been at least since the Victorian era. (Not that Crowley had seen an awful lot of that, with one thing and another.) This was Aziraphale’s home, had been since its grand opening, and one he had always shared with Crowley willingly, even at times when he was very strict about them being separate entities. Somehow, the demon found his way here, to a place surrounded by books, protected by angelic wards, and so laced with Aziraphale’s energy that the place felt…alive, somehow. Like thousands of eyes were watching him fondly, without judgment. 

Two blue eyes found his as the angel sat beside Crowley. A hand brushed his cheek, thumb resting against his jaw. It made Crowley swoon. “You walked out without your glasses, love,” he began, his other hand clasping Crowley’s before long fingers could snap a pair into existence. “Good thing, too. I love them.” 

Crowley looked into his lap. The flush on his cheeks was obviously due to the warm temperature of the room after being out in the cold. Surely. Surely he wasn’t flattered by Aziraphale’s compliment. Demons weren’t capable of such base, human reactions.

“Did you have a nightmare again?” Aziraphale asked gently, resting a hand on his thigh.

Crowley sighed shakily, leaning against Aziraphale heavily by way of reply. The angel held him close, tracing patterns along his biceps. He didn’t need to speak. Aziraphale knew.

What a gift it was, for your enemy to know your weaknesses.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a oneshot, but IT'S LATE, DAMN IT MUSE, so expect the next two parts SOON.
> 
> Songfic for Home by Daughtry because this song always gets me AND AZIRAPHALE AND CROWLEY ARE EACH OTHER'S HOME and nobody can take that away from me.


End file.
